


Caravan

by SpaceValkyrie



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9705362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceValkyrie/pseuds/SpaceValkyrie
Summary: A game of caravan.Sort of.





	

"No, no, no. Jacks remove -one- card from play. The one directly underneath it."

"But last time you played one, you took off all the nines on the board."

"No, I didn't. I mean - yeah, I did, but that was a Joker. Not a Jack."

The lawn chair creaked underneath by weight as I shifted further back in my seat. I placed my entire hand down on the table, where he could see. "I think you're full of jack shit."

Glowing yellow eyes observed me under the lip of a floppy grey fedora hood. "You're going to bail on the game that easily, boss? Just on account of some rules?"

"Yes, because these rules are fucking confusing. There's like... twenty million of them." I was usually more eloquent than this. I'd been a lawyer, for chrissakes. But I'd also already had a half a bottle of whiskey, all to myself. It wasn't like Nick was sharing any with me. It didn't burn anymore going down. Just numb and faintly warm as it brushed against my belly. I sat the bottle back down with an unceremonious clank and waited for his response.

After a lingering moment, he began shuffling his own piles back into one hand. I was mesmerized by the swiftness of his fingers, flicking the pieces of paper back and forth through his palms. "Caravan's a Westerner's game, anyway. Originated in California, I think. I learned it from some of the boys.." Valentine wandered off, his eyes dropping down between his boots a moment. Then he was shaking his head, setting his stack of cards futility on the table.

"Lost it?" I asked, rather soberly. He was having a particularly bad case of "memory flooding" lately; even the simplest of things would jolt him, overwhelming him with the cop he'd been replicated to experience life as. "The boys," I rightly assumed, referred to the men he'd worked with in the force. Not that Valentine could recall what it had actually been like...but the sense that he missed them was there. There was a somberness that darkly tinged the edges of his caramelized voice.

"Lost it," He finally replied, with a bitter smile. "Funny, that I can remember all the damn rules to a game of Caravan, even when some of the bits and pieces of my memory have been flushed down the toilet."

"Nick's memories," I emphasized. Nick's, not Valentine's. Valentine was a different man to me, as much as he believed he could not separate himself.

"Right." He was tapping the ends of his metallic fingers on the rusty patio furniture. We sat on the rooftop overlooking a smaller settlement. Off in the distance, an elderly fellow we had earlier nicknamed "Pottymouth Pete" was staring down the scope of a sniper into the wastes beyond. "How is it, then? The whiskey?"

"Beautiful," I breathed, hardly seconds after the question had passed his lips. I'd been holding out for almost a week, too much pain from a bullet to the gut and a hit to the head from a baseball bat I'd received a week before. A steady flow of stimpaks and as much rest as I could muster later, I was ready to relax - and numb the remnants of pain I was in. Mostly, I was sore. Jokingly, I pushed the whiskey over to Valentine. "Maybe you can jog your memory on the taste, and pretend, like you like to do?"

He had a raspy, sand papery laugh. I loved hearing it. "I'm good. I'm pretty content to just watch your get drunk off your ass and listen to you say stupid things."

Before I knew what I was saying - or doing - I scoffed and replied, "Jesus, you're so much like Nate," before ripping the bottle away from him and taking another heady swig. My head rushed with the flurry of intoxication. The glass clinked as I slammed it - a little too hard - down on the table.

"What did you say?" Nick was looking at me intently.

I swallowed, hard. "...I don't know. What...what did I say?" I absently lifted up the dirty undershirt I was wearing, itching at the fresh pink skin growing around the wound under my ribs. Doc told me not to; but I did anyway. I didn't give two fucks. 

There was a thin smile on his lips. He shook his head. "You are really drunk, aren't you?"

"No," I refuted, simply. "You're drunk." I went to snatch up the bottle again, my fingertips brushing against the neck of the bottle. I knew exactly what I'd said and I was embarrassed as hell and if he brought it up again I would sock him in his metal jaw. It was a slip. That's all it was. And anyways. It wasn't like I'd said he looked like my dead husband; or that he reminded me exactly of my dead husband. Just that...he was a lot like him. His joking demeanor. His gravely voice. The smug smirk he got on his lips when he'd caught me in a lie, or knew he'd gotten the upper hand....

...Like he was doing right now. Fuck it all.

I shook my head at him. I was grinning like an idiot. The last bit of whiskey slipped past my lips and I let the bottle clank to the floor. I didn't realize, however, that some of the whiskey had dripped onto my fingers due to my shoddy coordination. I went to scratch at the wound on my stomach again - and hissed, loudly. "Fuck!" It burned like a bitch. The metal legs of his chair screeched as he stood from his seat, rounding behind me in my own. I lifted the hem of my shirt to show him the wound. Healing, but not healed. The bullet had been cleanly pulled from the flesh; but there was a deep, dark indent where it had been. If I shifted and prodded it enough, it'd probably start bleeding pretty badly again.

"You need to stop itching it." He was right; but I still hated him for talking to me like I was a child. Again. Just like Nate. Stating the obvious facts I, too, knew well - and only when I was being stubborn about my safety would he re-emphasize what I didn't want to hear.I puffed my cheeks - reddened with whiskey and embarrassment - up at him, leaning my head back in the seat. 

"Whaddyou know," I huffed. He was on the cusp of devolving into laughter, his yellow eyes somehow filled with amusement that no inhuman entity could ever foster. He was real to me. And too much like Nate for me too handle in the moment. I was drunk. I was sore. And probably most importantly: I hadn't been touched by a man in ....two-hundred years. 

His lips finally broke out into a smile and I couldn't stop myself from grabbing him deftly by the hand and jerking it down onto my left breast. I moaned like I needed it - because I did - and threw my head back, pressing my eyes closed. I heard him inhale sharply - and I knew he was confused, downright shocked (and perhaps appalled?) by what I'd done - but I didn't stop. 

And neither did he. My eyes shot open. I looked up at him. I would shoot someone's brains out for even thinking that this man was incapable of emotion - because what I saw in his face was pure joy. I felt it, emanating from him. Curled on his lips. The flesh of his fingers was soft and plush, despite the wear and tear and bits of wire visible up his forearm. The fire of intoxication in my belly dropped between my legs. This was ridiculous; but it's not like I hadn't thought about it before. I was finally drunk enough and he was close enough - I felt at liberty to take what I'd been wanting for some time now. 

And the best thing was: he was into it, too. His fingers twitched around my breast. I couldn't wait. "Fuck the foreplay, Nick. Touch me. Right now." I grabbed him by the wrist and guided him farther down, spreading my legs, rocking my hips up and plunging his fingers down past the hem of my jeans. I was surprised when he suddenly grabbed my hand with his other, more robotic one, forcing it away. 

"I've got it under control, boss." I could hear the feral grin in his voice.

From that moment on, I was obedient. I braced the seat of the chair as his fingers swept down between my thighs, a solitary finger gently encircling my sex. He did this for what seemed like a whole fucking five minutes - and only until I was snapping at him, "Just fucking do it, you asshole," did he shut me up immediately, slipping two fingers up inside me. I groaned and bucked into his hand, amazed that I had held out on this for so damn long. I was still impossible to fathom - but I was too drunk, too horny, to care, or even think about what the next day would be like, walking through the ruins with him and everyone else. I couldn't even fathom his fingers absent from between my legs - I shuddered as he pulled away, leaving one finger to vigorously rub my clit in feverish circles.

"Oh my god," I breathed. His face was leaning against my cheek. Nuzzling me. Nurturing me. I had the saddest thought imaginable, suddenly - that I could not pleasure him like he was doing me - but I was too selfish to linger on it long. A problem to be investigated further, at a later date. 

But not now. Right now he was intent on doing all that was possible to make me scream. "I've been thinking about this for days now," He murmured, his lips pressed into my ear. 

"No shit, so have I," I snarled. I let my tongue drag over the remnants of flesh on his cheek - the snake of a smile plastered on it as the muscle darted back into my mouth. All he needed was that one, goddamned finger; running along in wild, feverish circles, then gliding up and down, up and down, creating more heat and more wetness that made me shiver and brought the bundle of nerves at the center of my body close to the breaking point.

"Nnn..." I started, the tip of my tongue pressed against the roof of my mouth.

"Say it," He purred. His fingers abruptly stopped.

"Fuck, don't." I roughly brushed my cheek against his. "Don't fucking stop." My arm wrapped around his neck and I pressed my feet into the floor, pushing up closer to his fingers - and he moved them away, stubbornly.

"Say Valentine." Not Nick. He wasn't Nick. He was a new man. Fucking man, indeed. Women were missing out, condemning him as a synth. I didn't care.

It left more for me.

I acquiesced; he rolled my clit between two fingers vigorously. I only needed a few seconds of that and I was screaming like he'd plunged a knife into my heart. My thighs were slick. I shuddered, clamping his wrist and hand between my legs as I flung myself to the side, face pressed against his.

"Where'd you learn how to do that?" I whispered, still experiencing the aftershocks of orgasm. In his casual, cool-man fashion, he slipped his hands into his pockets and crossed back over to his seat, settling down across from me. 

"A man would be out of his mind to forget the pleasures of sex, boss."


End file.
